Reading
Eighteenth century British statesman and philosopher Edmund Burke claimed that "where mystery begins, religion ends." He got it exactly backward. Religion begins with mystery. And not only religion. "The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious." as Albert Einstein said:
It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.... To know that what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their most primitive forms-this knowledge, this feeling, is at the center of true religiousness.
I agree. When it comes to miracles, far more persuasive than the stopping of the sun or the parting of the seas are the sun and the sea themselves. When asked about miracles, Einstein said, "Of course I believe in miracles. All life is a miracle." He also said this:
The religion of the future will be a cosmic religion.
Covering both the natural and the spiritual, it should be
Based on a religious sense arising from the experience
Of all things, as a meaningful unity.
Earlier this year I delivered a sermon entitled "The Angel and the Deep Blue Sea." In part because of the generosity of your encouragement, I have since begun to develop the thoughts I shared with you then into a proposal for a book tentatively entitled "A Twenty-first Century Theology." Over the next few months, I shall further develop this theme in a sermon series, touching first on Easter Sunday on the light of God, then, in May, June, July and August on the history of God, the quest for God, the realm of god, and the love of God.
You may not know this, but you have co-authored all my books. I test my ideas in the pulpit. You respond to them, share your thoughts, add your stories, even help me to clarify my ideas by telling me sometimes that you are not the least bit sure precisely what it was I was trying to say. You help me to connect the dots of my own theology. The resulting picture, while still undeniably impressionistic, at least becomes a little more clear, both for you and for me. For this I thank you. And also again invite you, as this series goes on, to join the conversation. Come in and talk to me about your own spiritual quest. Perhaps I can be of some small help to you. As for me, since I am finally daring to write a book about God the one subject almost no-one knows anything about I'm going to need all the help I can get!
As you know, I define religion simply: Religion is our human response to the dual reality of being alive and having to die. We are not the animal with tools or the animal with advanced language. We are the religious animal. Knowing we are going to die, we question what life means. Our mothers held us unknowing in the harbor of their wombs. And then they launched us into the sea of knowledge and mortality. Whenever a woman gives birth, she gives death. At its base line, this is where religion begins, at the gateway to life and also the door to the tomb.
In the theater there is something called a "through line." It connects the themes from one act to another and gives shape and meaning to the whole play. My through line is love and death. We must live and love our lives in such a way that they will prove worth dying for.
Since all of this is so complicated, even depressing sometimes, I welcome the sacrament of humor more than almost any other.
My favorite dictum in all of theology is G. K. Chesterton's: "Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly." By the same token, "The Devil fell on account of his gravity." Put to this test, I'm afraid this sermon may fail. To start this series, I'm going to have to pack my thesis in quite tightly. Before I can sprout the wings of a 21st century theology, I have to put down its roots. If forced to choose between bluebirds and oak trees I'd take the bluebird every time. But even a bluebird needs branches for its nest. So this morning, a little nest building.
Lacking some kind of religious awakening or second-birth, from the first spark of consciousness all the way to the grave, our problem is this. We may never discover that life is a gift, undeserved, unexpected, awesome and mysterious. That this gift will be stripped from us as suddenly as it was bequeathed is simply a condition of its receipt, a token of its preciousness. That said, if our religion doesn't inspire a sense of awe at the wonder of being, it has failed us, or we it. Having received life as a gift, if we are not drawn to revere the presence of this same gift in others, there is something wrong with our faith. Whatever our theology (or philosophy of life), if it doesn't lead us to respond in life-protecting, life-enhancing, life-affirming ways, we must go back and start over. We must re-boot our lives until the wonder we experience proves itself authentic by the quality of our response to it.
Theology may begin at the tomb's door-the specter of death prompting reflection on what life means-but surely no revelation is more compelling or worth pondering than that of a new-born babe emerging from its mother's womb. Theologians should close their learned tomes and re-open the book of nature. We should begin not with God, but with the miracle of our own lives. We should begin with ourselves and our mothers.
Whenever I ponder the miracle of life, if I am paying attention, I experience humility and awe: humility in reflecting on how tiny we are in the whole scope of things; awe-wonder tinged at times with a hint of terror-at the unfathomable depths and un-searchable breadth of creation.
To translate this conviction into a 21st century theology, four things are paramount. The two first-alluded to above-are awe and humility. To begin with, a theology that doesn't blow our socks off has no earthly use. Yet, our awe must be tempered by humility. When confronted by the cosmic mysteries, we remain far more alike in our ignorance than we differ in our knowledge. The devil is in the details, in mutually exclusive answers to what are almost certainly unanswerable questions. However developed our sense of wonder, when we lose our humility-when we damn our neighbors for holding beliefs that don't accord with our own-the devil is in us as well.
In addition to awe and humility, a 21st century theology must also maintain fidelity to reason. The desire to believe must not preclude evidence that casts doubt. At first glance, this third principle may seem to conflict with the first two. That is fine. Give it full play. If there is indeed a God, nothing is more God-given than our minds. No theology based on someone else's revelation can refute your own experience. So don't let it. Even use reason to test your experience for its wonder and humility quotient.
If it passes muster, you may be able to claim preliminary rights to Jesus' second great commandment, to love our neighbor as ourselves.
This is the fourth principle for a theology that makes saving sense today. A 21st century theology must save others as surely as it saves us. We can be saved by cultivating a sense of wonder and humility without sacrificing our minds. And by refusing to dismiss our neighbor's answers simply because they differ from our own, if not saved by us, others will at least be safe from us. If the universe is as mysterious as it seems, and life, even moral life, as riddled with inconsistencies as I and most of you find it, then nothing less than a dynamic combination of awe and humility, reason, and mutual respect can establish a sound platform for 21st century theology.
Where then does God fit in to all of this? The great 20th century theologian, Rudolph Otto, in his book,The Idea of the Holy, described God (or the Holy) as a mysterium tremens et fascinans, a tremendous (both awe- and fear-inspiring), mind-enthralling mystery. Coupled with our reading for the morning -- Albert Einstein's description of the religion of the future as a cosmic religion covering the natural and the spiritual, I can think of no better keynote to a 21st century theology. Don't worry about the word itself for a moment. God is not God's name; God is our name for that which is greater than all and yet present in each, the life force, the Holy, the ground of our being. So described, God doesn't exist because we need God. We exist because the universe is so amazing that only something like the idea of God can begin to come close to comprehending it. Such a claim may transcend rationality, but in no way does it conflict with the canons of reason.
Those who name and thereby claim God to be viewable only by a single set of dogmatically or scripturally focused lights mistake one of God's many veils for the mystery that lies behind it. No scripture more than hints at the vastness of being. But simply to recognize this and then blithely to discount other people's beliefs as superstition-to lift a veil without looking beyond it, without pondering in awe the true munificence it disguises-exacts a price on one's own soul. In face of life's majesty, how much better is it really for us to believe in nothing, than it is for others to believe too easily? Don't worry if other people's myths seem too small. In fashioning a 21st century theology, the question we should ask is whether our own myth is big enough. Does it begin to account for the mystery and wonder of being? Does it even hint at the presence and power of that which is present in all while overarching each. Does it awaken us?
I'll tell you what awakens me. Listening to my wife cry over the phone when I tell her that her 93 year old grandmother just died. That awakens me. And then watching her cry as she calls family members to share her thoughts and feelings. Dorothy Rodnon died quickly and apparently easily this past week. Her mind never failed her, and when her body gave way it did so quickly. But Carolyn was crushed. She adored her grandmother, visited her in Florida twice a year, gave her immense joy. Dorothy wasn't even a blood relation, but her grandfather's second wife. It couldn't have mattered less. Love, when we dare to love, transcends all borders. And yet, the more we love, the more we risk to lose and therefore stand to fear. On the tenderest heart the deepest shadow always falls. Dare to sail your ship into deep waters and you always risk more than when you keep it moored at harbor. Carolyn sailed with her grandmother into the sunset. And when the sun fell over the deep blue sea beyond the horizon her heart was blessedly broken.
You can't see God hovering over the face of the waters? Look again. Look farther. Look within. Look deeper and more closely. Francis Bacon, in The Advancement of Learning, wrote that "They are ill discoverers that think there is no land, when they can see nothing but sea" We too are ill discoverers that return from our adventures in the seen world without a profound sense of humility and awe and vulnerability in face of the unseen, in face of the vastness encompassing our navigations. The Latin word vulnerable means, literally, susceptible to being wounded. Dare to be wounded. Scars are badges of honor as often as they are of failure.
So what should you expect some months from now on returning from this theological voyage with me? First, let me tell you what not to expect. Final answers. A perfect map. How to get from your "here" to someone else's "there." For better or worse, your guide to a 21st century theology is himself highly suspect of theologians. People who would save me almost always put me off. I disappoint them too. I can never accept precisely what they teach. Faithful to my own mind and heart, to exchange my experience for another's revelation is unimaginable to me.
The question remains. How can I then presume to offer you a 21st century theology? How can I ask you to trust yourself and also to trust me? The answer-which will satisfy neither hard-boiled skeptic nor absolutist-is by being as tentative and inclusive as possible. A twenty-first century theology that doesn't embrace both my experience and yours-our highest and finest ones-will be too small. To fashion a theology for our times, my thoughts must expand to encompass yours, that your thoughts too may expand to encompass mine.
As religious liberals, we offer three gifts to our fellow seekers. An open mind. A responsive heart. A welcoming hand. To experience deep companionship (mind, heart and hand) with those who walk the same path we do from birth to grave is itself a Holy thing. To kneel together when faced by life's sorrows, and also when struck by life's wonder, are intimate theological touchstones. To love, forgive, reason, mourn and celebrate with others is to cultivate a large round-about soul, and thereby an encompassing faith.
In this spirit, as you begin this soul-journey with me, I invite you to ask this of your own theology:
1) Does it invoke awe, deepening your reverence for the creation?
2) Does prompt humility in face of life's wonder and mystery?
3) Does it accord with reason and what is known of nature's laws?
4) Does it enhance your respect for those who have different beliefs than you do, inspiring you to recognize that, for all our differences, we are truly one?
Keep these questions in mind thought over the coming weeks. Even if you disagree with me on some, or even most, of my theological details, if, at the end of this journey, you are more awe-struck, humble, reasonable and loving, then-by my book-your version of a twenty-first century theology will prove at least as good as mine, perhaps even better.
As I noted above, unlike many theological sermon series, this one is framed as a conversation. It is not a body of truth, but a way of truth finding, something we can only do together. As we embark, all I can promise is this. Walk with me toward the light, through history, down various paths, in search of justice and love, and together we will grow in faith and understanding. Come in and talk. Share your insights with me. With your help, I can promise that the sequels (yours and mine) will enhance this attempt at a 21st century theology for those who choose to join with us in our quest.
In this spirit, I invite you to take out your own compass. Fix your bearings on the horizon. And then gaze beyond the horizon into the sea of the heavens and the fathomless depth of your heart. Chart your course by the light not only of the stars but also of the angels, by both the seen and the unseen. Do so with wonder and humility, tempered by reason, respectful of others. And then look a little more closely at things nearer to hand, your loved ones, dreams, hopes for a better tomorrow. You may still see only ocean, not the landfall, but your tiny vessel will sail more surely. You will embark anew on life's greatest quest with wind in your sails, and, in your heart, a joy for the journey. And, who knows? If your mind remains open and your heart expectant, as I suggested in the sermon that launched my thoughts in the direction of a 21st century theology, for some brief and shining hour, you may even experience the angel and the deep blue sea as one. Copyright AllSouls 2000.